The Last Rose of Summer
by nightlyroses
Summary: "'Tis the last rose of summer,'" her raspy voice quietly recited, "'they left blooming all alone.' You know that poem, don't you, Thomas?" I nod. "Sea tá fhios agam. 'All her lovely companions are faded and gone.'" "That's me, you know. It's summer, and Rose is the last one blooming."


**AN:** This short piece is based on the poem "The Last Rose of Summer" by Thomas Moore (1779-1852).

* * *

August 2105

I remember attending a lot of funerals over the years at this ancient, eccentric house. It makes sense, if you know what I am. I was born into a large, tight-knit extended family at a time when many relatives were reaching old age decades after a most grievous Wizarding War (or two in the case of even older members). They may have won, but even the victor suffers after the battle. No one is safe from war's wrath.

It just so happens that we've reached the point where the so-called Next Generation has nearly died off completely. They are survived by most of their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren (early deaths are bound to happen, unfortunately), but there are so many of them you can't keep track anymore. In my generation, we have over forty, maybe fifty, cousins (all degrees included) altogether. I don't even know half of them, which is why I feel like I'm swimming in a sea of strangers even though it's a _funeral_.

The white stone tombstone is beautiful in its own terrible way. It just sits there in the tall green grass, marking the spot where they just laid the elderly man's corpse to rest for eternity. I think he was my great-grandfather's brother or cousin, but the family tree is such a mess at this point I don't even bother to remember the proper relations anymore. I am sure he was a blood relative, though, because the old woman who keeps herself away from everyone is right there in front of it with her wrinkled mouth forming words I can't hear. I know who she is. Everyone does.

Her name is Rose Granger-Weasley. Some people know her better as Rose Malfoy, but the story travels way back before her marriage, even before she was born. Her parents were famous for fighting in the Second Wizarding War as teenagers and the best friends of the Boy Who Lived. Two-thirds of the Golden Trio, everyone said. As their first-born, Rose faced many expectations, including being a genius and yet a brave hero. They expected her to embrace both her parents' image. While she was indeed very smart, nothing shocked people more than her friendship and later relationship with the son of one of her parents' most hated enemies: Scorpius Malfoy. It was unthinkable. Ludicrous. A Weasley and a Malfoy together? Their families had had a feud for generations. A love story wouldn't solve it now. But it did, and they lived a long, happy life together. Lived.

Scorpius died around thirty years ago (the recent inbreeding in his blood shortened his lifespan a great deal). Rose was left a widow. Then she had to watch as one by one, her entire family followed suit until she was the only left. Her last remaining cousin Albus Potter passed last week, and we are all attending his funeral. I can't imagine the sorrow she must be feeling. She may still have her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren around, but they aren't the people she grew up with. It's not the same thing.

People are starting to leave. Blurs of faces pass in my vision, but my sight remains focused on the wilting flower that is stationary on her stem. She slowly turns her head and meets my gaze head on, her blue eyes still clear as they must have been decades ago. They say one word to me: _Come._

My black robes flowing against the gentle summer breeze, I amble through the grass and flowers until I find myself next to my relative. A hint of perfume hits me, and I realise that it's the scent of a lily. Lily. It's her way of remembering her cousin who died eight years ago and who shared common roots in a name. A rose is a flower, and so is a lily.

"Tis the last rose of summer," her raspy voice quietly recited, "'they left blooming all alone.' You know that poem, don't you, Thomas?"

I nod. " _Sea tá fhios agam_ *. 'All her lovely companions are faded and gone.'"

"That's me, you know. It's summer, and Rose is the last one blooming."

An awful part of me wants to ask how long the wilting rose will continue blooming, but I cannot. To ask about one's own death at such a time is not just rude but cruel. I don't doubt that she longs for the day when the petals have all fallen to the ground, ready to give back to the earth. "Is it lonely?"

Her head bobs once. "Yes, Thomas. I'm the only one of my kind left. Just listen."

She inhales deeply and releases it. It hisses hauntingly as all sighs do in the quiet Burrow cemetery before silence returns. I watch her stare off into the horizon, seemingly waiting for something. Whatever it is, it doesn't come because she nods with disappointment. "Yes. That is a sure sign. Consider it the literal form of no rosebud to give a 'sigh for sigh,' as you remember."

There was no echo. There always should be an echo. Not even really thinking about it, I give my own sigh for her to hear. It doesn't emit the genuine sadness and loneliness hers did; it instead gives empathy attempting to disguise itself as the real thing. A fake echo, if you will.

Rose smiles softly but still sadly. "That's better. Thank you, Thomas." She glances dreamily at the old house her grandparents had lived in since over a hundred years ago. It's old, cracked, and peeling, and the structure seems to be remaining intact by impossible standards. It's the wonder and beauty of magic that we all know and understand deeply. "It's nearly time, I think. Yes. What will you do then, Thomas?"

I frown slightly. "Me? When?"

"For when I am gone, of course."

I've barely spoken to Rose before now, and she's presently asking me what I will do after she's passed. "What does it matter?"

"Of course, it matters, Thomas. There is a reason I've only spoken with you today."

"But why me?"

She doesn't answer right away, but her eyes glaze over as her focus on the house blurs to general space. "You understand things, Thomas. It's quite interesting. You know who wrote that poem, right?"

The answer comes to my mind immediately, but the meaning takes a few seconds to register completely. "Moore. Thomas Moore." Thomas Moore, just like me.

She smiles again. "Some would call it a coincidence. I say not. There was a reason your parents gave you that name."

I somewhat doubt that, but Rose Granger-Weasley is a woman of wisdom. She knows more than I can ever dream to. And that poem definitely holds a lot of meaning to me. "I shall not be leaving you to pine on your stem."

She shakes her head. "I don't think I'll be able to do anything else until the end. But please, Thomas. Do me one favour."

"What's that?"

She looks over to where the garden is still maintained even after all these years. "See that rosebush? Those flowers are a particular species of rose. The _Rosa_ 'Old Blush.' When summer ends and I am gone, I want you to take the last one blooming and scatter its leaves on my grave. The head and stem shall then be placed perfectly in the centre on top of my gravestone. It will be with me and my garden mates for the rest of eternity. Do you understand?"

What she asks of me is simple, but the reasoning is odd. Nevertheless, I agree. " _Tuigim_ **. Yes. I will fulfil your request."

"Thank you, Thomas. I will be eternally grateful."

* * *

Rose Granger-Weasley dies three weeks later. I attend her funeral and leave a bouquet of multi-coloured roses on her grave. When it's time for the last rose in the bush to be picked and scattered, I return to the Burrow and take the precious flower from its lonely place on the bush. Its beauty was stunning, but the sorrowful solitude it was in showed itself clearly.

After the poor flower has been put out of its misery, I sit in front of Rose's grave. "One day, I will follow you to where you are. It may be several years; it may even be, Merlin forbid, a mere few days. But death, when it comes, takes everything. Friendship, love, the gems of life. Hearts are withered, and fond ones are flown."

I take a deep, shuddering breath. "Tell me, Rose. Who would live in a bleak world such as that?"

 _Only the_ _l_ _ast rose of summer_.

Poor Rose lived in that bleak world for three weeks.

* * *

*Translates to "Yes, I know"

**Translates to "Yes, I understand"

 **AN:** Okay, I honestly have no idea what I just wrote. It was just a idea I thought of because the song based on the poem is lovely, Rose is Rose, and I thought it would be nice to personify it with Harry Potter characters. I hope it's good? I think the symbolism went all over the place, but it's your opinions that matter as well! What do you think, guys? Thumbs up or thumbs down? Oh, and if you know Gaelic, I would appreciate a better translation because I was too lazy to try harder in researching.

 **AN 2:** It has been established that our narrator is descended from one of Rose's cousins. Can you guess which one? You'll have to read some of my other Next Generation stories to figure it out. The Irish ancestry should give you a clue!


End file.
